


They Saved Milton Keynes

by MarcusRowland



Category: Top Gear (UK), Top Gear (UK) RPF, Wallace & Gromit, Yes Minister, Yes Prime Minister
Genre: Gen, Podfic Welcome, surprise crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-24
Updated: 2011-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-17 06:09:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarcusRowland/pseuds/MarcusRowland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Britain is in danger, and there isn't enough time to get help from the other major powers, the Prime Minister turns to a team with a history of solving unusual problems. After all, how hard can it be? Top Gear / Multiple crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is Top Gear / multiple crossover fanfic, and a bit silly. You have been warned.
> 
> All fictional characters belong to their respective creators, soulless media companies, etc. etc. There is no intent to infringe on copyright, this story may not be distributed on a profit-making basis. See the end of each chapter for a list of crossovers and sources.
> 
> Several real media personalities appear in this story; however, this story depicts the (at least partially fictitious) personas they adopt for their TV shows, not the real people and especially not their private lives.

It began with a faint dot on a computer screen. If it had ended there, if nobody had noticed, the world wouldn’t have been much changed. A couple of hundred thousand people would be dead, the British climate would be worse than ever, and it would take twice as long to get from London to Birmingham. Cosmically speaking, that’s small beer.

It didn’t happen that way.

**I - London: T-23**

“Are you quite sure about this?” asked Jim Hacker.

Sir Humphrey shook his head dolefully. “Yes, Prime Minister. The Americans and Russians have offered to help, but they’re privately admitting that they can’t get anything put together in the time available.”

“So what the hell are we supposed to do?”

“Sir, there is a long British tradition of last-minute innovation and hare-brained plans saving the day. Dunkirk, the Dam-Busters, the Falklands war, the Italian Job... It may be that the best way to handle the situation is to let loose some of our finest improvisational minds, experts who will let nothing stand in the way of success, and give them every possible motive to succeed.”

“You’re not suggesting we hand the problem over to... to Alan Sugar, are you?”

“We can’t afford his fees, I’m afraid, and he’d want to turn it into a full length TV series. We need a faster solution.”

“Who did you have in mind, then?”

Wordlessly, the Senior Civil Servant handed him the list.

“So this is it,” said the Prime Minister, “we’re all going to die...”

**II - Dunsfold Aerodrome, Surrey: T-22**

“Now earlier in the show,” said Richard Hammond, “We told you that Captain Slow was going to try driving the Bugatti Veyron at its top speed, 253 miles an hour. Well…”

A production assistant stepped into shot and made a throat-cutting gesture. “Sorry, we’re going to have to stop recording.”

“What the hell for?” said Jeremy Clarkson.

“Word just came in from Broadcasting House. The Director General wants all of you in London right away.”

“That’s going to bugger the schedule,” said Richard Hammond.

“Can’t be helped,” said the voice of the producer, amplified over the PA system. “I think they saw Jeremy’s expenses claim.” The studio audience laughed, assuming it was another stunt.

“Oh bloody hell,” said Jeremy. “It was nice knowing you, chaps.”

“It’s been… interesting,” said Richard.

“Don’t worry,” said James, “We’ll find someone to replace you.”

“Ha bloody ha.”

“Race you to Broadcasting House?” asked Richard.

“How much do you want to bet on it?” Jeremy asked. “If I’m going to be out of a job I might as well get as much of your money as I can.”

“They’ve sent transport,” said the production assistant, listening to the voice in his headphone, “it’s waiting outside.”

“What have we got?” asked Jeremy, detaching his microphone. “Some bloody BBC bus?”

“Reception says it’s a helicopter.”

“Exactly how much did you fiddle?” asked Richard, following Jeremy out of the studio, with James taking the rear, followed by a fast-thinking cameraman. Outside the helicopter was sitting on the tarmac, its rotor blade already spinning.

“That’s a bloody Lynx,” shouted James, “the fastest helicopter in service. What did you do, Jeremy, pawn the DG’s Bentley?”

“And why are there armed soldiers guarding it?” added Richard.

“Because it belongs to the army,” said one of the soldiers, saluting Jeremy, and added “if you’d like to step aboard please, gentlemen.”

“What if we don’t?” asked James.

“That might be... unfortunate,” said the soldier, doing something clicky and ominous to his gun.

“Fair enough,” shouted Richard, climbing aboard.

“Works for me,” said Jeremy, ducking low, and followed him under the rotors and into the helicopter.

“Sir?” shouted the soldier, “We’re waiting.”

“This had better not be bloody ‘This Is Your Life,’” said James.

“I can promise you it isn’t,” said the soldier.

“You’ve Been Framed?”

“Definitely not.”

“Okay. But I’m not leaving a tip.” James followed them aboard, and the soldier slammed the door behind him, while another showed him how to strap into his seat. The engines started to make a lot more noise, and the helicopter lurched into the air.

**III - Downing Street, London: T-22**

“Okay,” whispered Jeremy. “I’ve cracked it; I know why we’re here.”

“Go on,” said James. “Enlighten us, oh Brain of Britain.”

“The penny didn’t drop until I saw that Patrick Moore was here; then I twigged.”

“And?” said Richard.

“Patrick Moore, right? Loveable eccentric, older than God, astronomer, musician, very patriotic.”

“I suppose.”

“And then there’s me. Loveable eccentric, young and handsome, driver, very patriotic.”

“Okay...?”

“So it’s obvious, isn’t it? They want us to go to Afghanistan to entertain the troops.”

“And where do Richard and I fit into this?” asked James.

“You’re the comic relief, of course.”

“Riiiight...”

“You plonker,” said Richard. “Assuming for the sake of argument that the government found you entertaining, which I doubt, why in The Stig’s name would they kidnap you in the middle of a recording? Why fly us to London?”

“They didn’t want to waste our time, of course.”

“Which is why we’ve been sat here for nearly an hour,” said James. “While Sir Patrick gets wheeled straight in to see the PM.”

A mousy-looking man in formal clothing came in and said “If you’d like to come through, the Prime Minister is ready for you now.” He led them along a short corridor and into the cabinet room, where the Prime Minister and Patrick Moore were looking at some papers.

“Thank you all for coming,” said Hacker.

“We weren’t given much of a choice,” said Hammond.

“Yes. My apologies for that, there really is an urgent situation. Please, sit where you can see the screen.” He gestured to a plasma screen on a mobile stand. Sir Patrick, if you’d like to explain..?”

Sir Patrick moved to a seat facing them, and an astronomical photograph of a fairly nondescript group of stars appeared on the screen. “This is a recent picture from Hubble. I’m going to switch back and forward between it and another taken a few hours later.” The picture didn’t seem to change, apart from one dot that moved slightly. “As you can see, the object here appears to be moving.”

“And?” asked Hammond.

“To cut a long story short, a new asteroid has been discovered, and it’s on a collision course with the Earth.”

“Bloody hell.”

“How big an asteroid?” asked James. “End of the world stuff?”

“Fortunately no,” said Sir Patrick. “It’s roughly the size of, oh, let’s say the Albert Hall, and can’t weigh more than a few thousand tons.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“We’ve been tracking it for a week now, and we can predict where it will hit the Earth, within five miles or so. Somewhere in the near vicinity of Milton Keynes, in just over three weeks.”

“Milton Keynes?” said Jeremy. “What’s the problem? Probably improve the place. You’ve got three weeks to evacuate.”

“Our best estimate,” said Hacker, “is several billion pounds in damage if the area of total destruction includes the city, plus another couple of billion in damage to the surrounding area. We’re probably going to have to replace every window over about fifty square miles, for example. And Milton Keynes is a major transportation nexus, we’ll probably need to reroute railways and shut down the M1 for a few months. All of that will come out of the taxpayer’s pockets, of course.”

“Bugger.”

“Jeremy,” said Richard, “if the M1 is out of action what happens to the rest of Britain’s roads?”

“Total bloody gridlock.”

“Thought so.”

“So where do we come in?” asked Jeremy. “Blow the bloody thing up, what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” said Hacker, “is that neither the Russians nor the Americans have boosters ready to launch before the asteroid hits us, and neither are prepared to divert the resources that would be needed for a crash program. Our experts say that there’s nothing to be done. Which leaves the situation in your hands.”

“Our hands?” said Jeremy incredulously.

“Think of it as a challenge,” said Hacker. “We’re prepared to give you a budget of a hundred thousand pounds and full access to any resources or technical assistance you might need. All you need do is stop the asteroid from hitting Britain. It ought to be easy for people with your expertise.” Hacker crossed his fingers behind his back.

“It’d make one hell of a show. We could have a countdown clock in a corner of the screen, and spend hours arguing about how we’re going to do it.”

“And end up in the Tower of London when we balls it up and drop the asteroid on Windsor Castle or something,” said James.

“That’s very unlikely,” said Hacker. “As I understand it, a slight change in the asteroid’s course should make it miss the Earth completely.”

“That’s a hell of a challenge,” said James.

Almost inevitably, Jeremy said the fatal words: “How hard could it be?”

“Are you totally out of your bloody mind? How the hell are we going to get a rocket built in time?” said Richard.

“Now there,” said Sir Patrick, “I might be able to help. There’s a chap in Wigan with some very interesting ideas on rocketry, and he owes me a favour...”

**IV - 62 West Wallaby Street, Wigan: T-21**

“So let me get this straight,” said Jeremy, “you built a rocket and flew it to the moon, but you can’t use it to get to a poxy little asteroid?”

“The problem,” said Wallace - he didn’t seem to have any other name – “is that the fuel we used was a little ...um... temperamental. We got to the moon all right, but we were lucky it didn’t blow up the rocket.” His dog nodded mournfully, and handed James a clipboard covered with chemical formulae and equations.

“Seriously? You used this stuff?” Wallace and the dog nodded. “You’re braver than I am.”

“Is it really that bad?” asked Richard.

“Think of the most enormous explosion we’ve ever had on the show,” said James. “Then make it a couple of hundred times bigger. They’re lucky they didn’t destroy the whole of bloody Wigan.”

“That’s it, then,” said Jeremy. “The Stig’s driving.”

“Works for me.”

“But what about Wigan?” asked Wallace.

“We’ll launch it from somewhere a bit safer,” said Jeremy. “Salisbury Plain ought to be okay. Worse we’ll do there is blow up Stonehenge. That’ll annoy the hippies, so it’s a win/win situation.”

Sir Patrick produced a slide rule from his pocket, made a few calculations, and said “Assuming that your figures are accurate, and that we’ll need to transport about a ton of equipment to the asteroid, we’ll need to keep the total weight of the final stage to about five tons, including the re-entry vehicle. We’ll be using a lot of fuel to match speed with the asteroid, much more than you needed to get to the Moon.”

“So we need something aerodynamic and lightweight for the re-entry vehicle...” mused Jeremy.

“You can forget Robin Reliants now,” said James, guessing where Jeremy was headed. “We want this thing to work, not roll over and crash two minutes after we launch. And the owner’s club said they’d lynch us if we wrecked another one.”

“I’ve got a Reliant Regal,” said Wallace, “but I really need it for my business.”

“I’m not sure it would be much of an improvement anyway,” said James. “We need something a lot... well... saner.”

“Bond Bug,” said Richard. “Same sort of weight, much more aerodynamic. Perfect.”

“That’s just a souped-up Reliant with a different body style.”

“Yes, but when did you ever hear of someone rolling one?”

“That’s because they only built a couple of thousand of them, and most of them crashed and burned the first time they rolled.”

“I don’t care,” said Jeremy. “We’re not talking about any old driver, this is the Stig!”

“The same Stig that rolled a Robin the first time he tried to drive one.”

“Oh ye of little faith.”

**TBC**

 

Crossovers so far Top Gear / Yes Minister / Wallace and Gromit / The Sky at Night, more to come...

Notes for the perplexed: The Top Gear team and The Stig are real people, but appear to be playing roles in the show. I would hate to believe that adults really behave like that without a script...

Sir Patrick Moore, astronomer, musician, TV personality and author, presented The Sky at Night for fifty or so years, making it the longest-running TV show with a single presenter in the world. He also played his on-screen self in episodes of Doctor Who and numerous other British TV shows. He died in December 2012.

The Bond Bug was a real car, a souped-up version of the Reliant series of three-wheeled cars. Like them, its handling left a lot to be desired.

The title of this story and one aspect of its plot were suggested by a filk song, "Falling Down on Milton Keynes," which is an authorized parody of Mitchell Burnside-Clapp’s "Falling Down on New Jersey" which is based on the song "Rolling Down to Old Maui".


	2. Chapter 2

**V - Salisbury Plain: T-14**

“So let me get this straight,” said Jeremy. “The Bond Bug is too small? Wallace has already fitted the bloody engine!” He pointed at the tiny red car; now fitted with wings and perched atop a fuel tank and engines, thirty feet above the launch pad.

“We lost a decimal place when we worked out the weight needed for fuel,” said James. “It’ll do for the return journey, but we need something a lot bigger to get the Stig out there and match speed.”

“There isn’t enough time or money to build a bigger rocket,” said Richard. “What the hell do we do?”

“We just need to add a few tons of extra fuel capacity.” said Sir Patrick, “plus more liquid oxygen. Surely that can be done. It could even be a big external container, with a few hoses to the re-entry vehicle. Tow it on a long enough cable and the rockets won’t damage it.”

“You want us to tow a _caravan?”_ said Jeremy.

“I suppose you could call it that.”

“Oh bloody hell…”

 **VI - Milton Keynes: T-10**

“People of Milton Keynes,” Jeremy shouted into his loudhailer. “Prepare to evacuate your homes. A giant asteroid is going to hit the town in ten days.”

His voice echoed across the city centre, mostly ignored by lunch-time shoppers. An old lady stared at him, and some children giggled.

“I don’t think they’re buying it, mate,” said Richard.

“We don’t even have to do this,” said James. “The army will be moving them out next week.”

Jeremy ignored them, and harangued the assembled lack of multitude for several minutes. Then the police arrested him for disturbing the peace. It took ten hours to sort out his bail.

 **VII - Salisbury Plain: T-8**

“We need to launch in the next twelve hours,” said Sir Patrick. “Otherwise you’ll reach the asteroid too late to do any good.”

“Right then,” said Jeremy. He picked up a checklist and began to cross off sections. “We can forget about the pressure checks, life support checks, return booster checks…”

“Those are all things that could kill your pilot.”

“Driver. Look, it’s the Stig, he’ll be all right.”

“And if he isn’t?”

“It’ll be great television.”

“I really must protest in the strongest possible terms.”

“Have you got a better idea?” asked Richard.

“Ah… no.”

“Keep shtum then,” said James, “and with any luck the Stig won’t notice.”

“Okay,” said Jeremy. “We launch in five hours.”

 **VIII - Salisbury Plain: Four hours later**

“Last check, guys,” said Jeremy, looking around the converted caravan that was going to serve as the supply vehicle. “Ten tons of fuel?”

“Check!” said Richard, gingerly patting the huge silicon-rubber bladder that held the lethally explosive mixture.

“Ten tons of liquid oxygen?”

“Check!” said James, taking care not to touch the icy cryogenic tanks.

“Umbilical cables connected?”

“Check,” said Richard, looking out of the forward porthole.

“Towing cable hooked on?”

“Check!” James joined him at the porthole, and added “Is the Stig supposed to be boarding the Bug yet?”

“Not for another half hour,” said Jeremy, checking his clipboard.

“That’s odd. Oh, Wallace and Gromit are boarding too; it must be some sort of last minute thing.” James picked up his walky-talky. “Guys, is there a problem?”

“Just showing Stig here the landing controls,” said Wallace. “Now whatever you do, don’t touch that lever until you’re ready to launch. No, not that one… that one… oh dear…”

Outside there was a soft pop, followed by an enormous roar, as flames began to pour from the Bug’s rockets.

“Hold on tight, lads,” said Wallace.

The caravan began to shake, and its door slammed shut as a blast of superheated rocket exhaust streamed past. Fifty yards away the Bug rose into the air on a pillar of fire. Over the radio they could hear Wallace shouting something, mostly drowned by the noise of the engines and someone singing in Italian. The Stig’s music selection, of course.

“Brace yourselves,” shouted Jeremy.

There was a loud “Twang!” and the caravan jerked into the air, spinning on the end of the cable and buffeted by the blast of the engines. All three were hurled back onto the rubber fuel tank, which fortuitously cushioned them against the massive G-forces.

“Oh bugger!” said Jeremy, as he began to black out. “None of the sodding cameramen are aboard…”

 **IX - Space: T-7**

“Captain’s Blog,” said Jeremy, “Stardate...”

“Oh, give it a rest,” said Richard. “Nobody cares. If we had a camera there might be some interest, as it is you won’t even make YouTube.”

“Someone needs to document the expedition,” said Jeremy. “We’re making history here, the first caravan in space.”

“Okay,” said James, floating in mid-air near the caravan’s tiny instrument console. “Have a historic engineering report. The historic caravan’s historic cabin pressure is still holding, I think we got the last leak plugged at last, thanks to the Hamster’s historic pack of Juicy Fruit. Just remember we’re breathing pure oxygen now, nobody light a fag!”

“That’s good,” Wallace said over the walky-talky. “All we have to do now is work out how to get you aboard the Bug for the return flight.”

“Without anything useful like… oh, space suits,” said Richard.

“We’ve got this far,” said Jeremy.

“Yes, and a fat lot of help you’ve been.”

There was a “beep” and they heard Sir Patrick’s voice, relayed from the radio in the Bug. “I’ve checked your course, and it looks like the corrections you’ve made were a success. You should be able to see the asteroid any time now. Just look out for a bright moving object, it ought to be crossing your course from left to right. When the Stig sees it, he should follow it and match speeds. Is that clear?”

“The Stig is nodding,” said Wallace. There was a pause that lasted several minutes then he shouted “There it is. Now then, Stig, left hand down a aaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!”

Outside was suddenly very bright again, and the caravan lurched and whipped round onto a new heading, slamming everyone into the ceiling.

“Whose idea was it to let the Stig drive?” asked Jeremy.

“Yours!”

They were still arguing when the caravan smashed into the asteroid.

 **TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**X - The Asteroid: T-6**

“Now technically,” said Jeremy, “we really ought to be dead at this point.”

Panning the camera across the cratered surface of the small asteroid, Gromit nodded his agreement.

“We really weren't expecting an asteroid this size to have an atmosphere, let alone one we could breathe, and it's certainly made things a lot simpler. It means that Captain Slow can set up the bomb, while Wallace and the Hamster are cannibalising the caravan to turn the Bug into a stretched version that ought to hold us all. Nobody's quite sure where The Stig has got to, but he'll probably turn up sooner or later. Meanwhile I'm going to do a little exploring. C'mon, Gromit, walkies.”

He set off across the surface, rising several feet into the air between steps. On his third landing the ground gave way below him, and he plummeted down into the dark.

Gromit scratched his head, pointed the camera down the hole, couldn’t see anything, and after a little reflection went off to find the others.

 **XI - The Asteroid: About 30 minutes later**

“So where’s The Stig gone?” asked James, tightening one of the nuts in the scaffolding that now supported a large cylinder covered with radiation symbols.

“Oh dear, I really don’t know,” said Wallace, making tea nearby. “Hmmm… we’re running a little low on cheese. Hope we’ve still got enough for the return flight. Actually, I thought he was with you.”

“Nope. He went off somewhere while we were unloading the nuke, haven’t seen him in a couple of hours.”

“Come to that, I haven’t seen Mister Clarkson around either.”

“Maybe he fell off the asteroid,” James said hopefully. “The way he was leaping around he could easily reach escape velocity.”

“Odd that,” said Wallace. “With so much air around, you’d think the gravity would be stronger.”

Gromit ran up, carrying the camera, and began to mime something complicated.

“What’s that, Skippy,” said James. “Timmy’s fallen down the well?”

Grommit started to mime again. He had a feeling that this was going to be a long job.

 **XII - Inside the Asteroid: An hour later**

After wandering through interminable tunnels, lit by dim phosphorescence, Jeremy found himself in a larger chamber, where there was a pool of bubbling liquid, and a fair amount of steam. In the distance, concealed by the mist, he could hear splashing.

“Hello?” shouted Jeremy. The splashing stopped.

An odd booming voice shouted “Vo blo, glob blig blog vil blod, splod globu.”

“Anyone there speak English?” shouted Jeremy.

Something loomed out of the mist; a six-limbed scaly reptilian form, about the size of a large pony, holding a large copper cauldron in one hand and a ladle in the other. “blog vil blod, lob voogle blod.”

“Sorry, mate,” said Jeremy, “no speak-a the lingo.”

The creature stared at him, shrugged, then disappeared into the mist again. Moments later it reappeared, carrying a copper bowl, gave it to Jeremy, then ladled some purple bubbling liquid into the bowl.

“Thanks, that’s very kind of you, but I’m actually looking for the exit.”

“blo, glob blig blog.” It looked at Jeremy expectantly.

“Oh god, you want me to eat it, don’t you?”

The creature nodded at him.

Jeremy sniffed cautiously. “Well, it doesn’t smell as disgusting as it looks.”

“Vlorb klootuk,” said the creature, looking a little annoyed.

“Really? You really want me to eat this?”

“Vlorb!!”

“Oh bugger.” Jeremy raised the bowl to his lips and risked a tiny sip. “Um… oh, actually that’s not too bad.” He took another mouthful. “A bit like borsht. Yum!” He ate some more. Eventually the creature seemed satisfied.

Jeremy burped loudly. “Thanks, that was excellent, but I really need to be heading home. My compliments to the chef.”

“Blib glob vlob floorrxx.” The reptile looked pleased.

“So how do I get out of here?” asked Jeremy.

As if by magic The Stig appeared out of the mist, and gestured for Jeremy to follow.

 **XIII - On the Asteroid: T-5**

“Well, this is a bit of a bugger,” said James, looking down the hole. “No telling where Jeremy or the Stig have ended up, there could be miles of tunnels in there.”

“The whole asteroid is only the size of the Albert Hall,” said Sir Patrick’s voice over the radio. “How hard can it be to find him?”

“Well I’m not going down there,” said Richard, dropping a coin down the hole. He couldn’t hear it land.

“If we bugger off now,” said James, “there’ll be a lot more room in the Bug, and we can detonate the bomb sooner.”

“Won’t that kill Jeremy?”

“And your problem with that is…?”

“Dropped something down the hole?” asked a familiar voice. They looked up to see Jeremy and The Stig watching them.

“We thought we’d lost you,” said Richard.

“No such bloody luck,” added James.

“Absolutely amazing down there,” said Jeremy. “Absolutely miles of tunnels, and this big dragony thing that gave me a bowl of soup.”

“Just a moment,” said Sir Patrick over the radio, “are you saying that there’s intelligent life on the asteroid?”

“In it, not on it,” said Jeremy. “And it can’t be all that intelligent, it didn’t even want a tip.”

“That’s terrible,” said Sir Patrick, “We’ll need to change our plans. Can you use the rockets to change the course of the asteroid without destroying it?”

“It’s a bit late for that,” said James.

“Can you imagine what the UN will say if you destroy an intelligent alien?”

“Doctor Who does it all the time,” said Jeremy.

“Only as a last resort,” said Sir Patrick. “Now get back to the rocket, and I’ll run a few calculations and tell you what to do.”

“Great,” said Jeremy. “Now we’ve got a bloody international incident on our hands.”

 **XIV - On the Asteroid: fifteen minutes later**

“Oh, there you are,” said Wallace, looking up from his tools.

“Bit of a problem,” said Jeremy. “Sir Patrick wants a change in plans. Can we turn the Bug on its nose and use the engines to drive the asteroid off course?”

“Not really,” said Wallace. “Um… who are your friends?”

“Friends?” said Jeremy. "It’s just… oh bugger!”

Without anyone noticing three pink humanoids had appeared behind Jeremy and The Stig. They were about five feet tall and had big ears, long wuffly noses, and wore garments made out of pieces of hammered metal, held together by rings like chain mail. One of them whistled at Jeremy. All of them were carrying things that looked like weapons or tools.

“I thought you said a big dragony thing,” said Richard.

“That was green, these guys are pink.”

One of the creatures pointed the metal rod it was carrying at the bomb, and whistled again. The others moved to either side, picked up some of the tools that were lying around, and began to take the bomb apart, whistling as they worked.

“I think that must be their way of talking,” said Richard.

“Don’t just stand there,” said Jeremy. “Stop them, we’ve only got a few days to save the M1... and Milton Keynes too, I suppose.”

One of the aliens whistled again, and The Stig replied.

“Whoa!” said James. “The Stig can talk to them!”

“Tell them we need the bomb,” said Jeremy.

The Stig didn’t reply, but moved to stand between Jeremy and the aliens.

“Are you helping them?” said Richard.

The Stig nodded.

“You’re going to spoil everything,” said Jeremy. “What sort of ratings do you think we’re going to get if we let the asteroid hit the Earth?”

The Stig mimed something, and Gromit mimed back. After a few minutes Richard said “I think that The Stig is saying that the aliens can use the bomb to change the course of the asteroid without destroying it.”

While they had been talking the aliens had assembled an elaborate collection of junk, which they seemed to be wiring into the bomb, under the supervision of another alien (or possibly a robot), which looked like a strange metal bird. Occasionally it darted into the machinery to move a component.

“That looks really ingenious,” said Wallace, “but I’m not sure I understand what they’re doing.”

“Well, I can’t put the bloody thing back together,” said James. “Nuclear physics has never been my strong point.”

The exposed metal core of the bomb began to glow blue, and the aliens backed away hastily. The metal structure began to emit deafeningly loud musical notes.

“Oh great,” said Jeremy, “they’ve converted the bomb into a giant nuclear ghetto blaster.”

“Wait!” said Sir Patrick. “I think… yes, the asteroid’s orbit is changing. It’s slight, but if they can keep that up for a few hours it should miss the Earth completely!”

“Eee!” said Wallace. “Well, that’s one problem solved. But if this thing’s changing course we need to get moving, there might not be enough fuel to get home if we wait too long.”

 **TBC**

Adding a crossover with [The Clangers,](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Clangers) of course!

And a round of applause to several members of the filking fraternity, who managed to guess where this story was headed - I really had no idea that anyone had written a Clanger-centric version of Falling Down on Milton Keynes!


	4. Chapter 4

**XV - The Asteroid: T-4**

“Jodrell Bank confirms that the asteroid will definitely miss the Earth,” Sir Patrick said the next day, “and it’s also accelerating. You’ll need to leave in about ten hours; that will give you the best position and speed. But no more than that, if you take it past twelve hours you may not have enough fuel left to get you back safely. Try to lighten ship as much as you can.”

“We could leave Jeremy,” said Richard, draining a bowl of green soupy gunk.

“It’s going to be a bit crowded in the Bug,” said James. “There’s five of us and the dog.”

The Stig shook his head and held up four fingers.

“Four of us? Who do we leave behind?”

The Stig pointed to his own chest, then raised his hands to his white helmet and removed it, revealing a pink head with big ears and a long wiffly nose.

“Stiggy,” said Jeremy, “You’re an alien?”

The Stig nodded and whistled.

“A girl alien?” asked James, noticing a sparkly red ribbon tied around a small tuft of hair on the top of its head.

The Stig nodded and whistled again.

“Actually, that explains an awful lot,” said Richard.

“Definitely,” said Jeremy. “Okay, don’t like long farewells. Are you sure you want to stay here?”

The Stig nodded, whistled, and waved, then started to climb down one of the tunnels into the asteroid.

“Right then,” said Jeremy. “Let’s finish work on the Bug and push off then.”

 **XVI – On the Asteroid: T-3**

The Earth filled a large portion of the sky, and seemed to be swelling visibly, as Jeremy said “All right, I admit it, it’s impossible. I can’t fit in the driver’s seat.”

“Not and close the canopy,” said James. “You’re definitely too tall. Besides, I’m the only pilot here, and Wallace has the most three-wheeler experience. You two will just have to ride in the back with the supplies. And don’t start whining again, you agreed the dimensions when we started cannibalising the caravan. You’ll be okay if you keep your knees bent.”

“Deep vein thrombosis here we come,” said Jeremy, trying to wedge into the compartment they’d added.

Richard passed him some lumpy sacks, and said “Don’t be a wimp; it’s only going to take about fifteen hours. Use these as padding. And leave some for me!”

“They smell awful, what’s in them?”

“Some sort of seeds, I think they use them to make that soup you like. Think of them as bean-bag chairs.” He climbed in, adding “Pull your bloody elbows in.”

“I am pulling them in.”

“Bollocks.”

“Language!” said Wallace, getting into the driver’s seat.

“Okay,” said James, climbing in, “are you sure Gromit knows what to do?”

“Are you ready, lad?” shouted Wallace. Standing beside the car, Gromit nodded and held up a box of matches.

“Right! Handbrake on?”

“Check,” said James.

“Lights on?”

“Check.”

“Fuel on?” Wallace flipped a switch. Liquid began to flow from the remnants of the caravan, now reduced to its chassis and the tanks.

“Check.”

“Pre-ignition sequence!”

Behind the Bug, Gromit struck a match, lit a fuse, and hastily ran back and jumped onto James’s lap.

“Check!” said James, looking in the mirror and seeing that the fuse was burning.

“Close canopy!”

Wallace and James pulled the canopy down, twisted levers to lock it down, and waited nervously.

“When the engine starts,” said Jeremy, “better let it build up to full power before you release the handbrake, that way…”

With a loud roar the engine started.

“Sixty percent power…” said James. “seventy… eighty…” There was a squeal of rubber as the Bug slewed around slightly, then the brakes failed completely and the Bug hurtled across the surface of the asteroid, narrowly missing the lip of a crater, bounced twice, and left the surface, headed roughly in the direction of the Earth. Ten seconds later the towing cable snapped taught and the remains of the caravan followed it into space.

 **XVII – 500 miles out: T-2**

Coasting through space with the engines shut down to minimum power, the occupants of the Bug were getting very bored.

“I spy with my little eye,” said Jeremy, “something beginning with ‘E’”

“Earth!” said Wallace, Richard, and James.

“Wrong!”

“Edam?” asked Wallace.

“No, and we haven’t got any left anyway.”

“No cheese, Gromit!”

“Europe?” said James.

“Blast!” said Jeremy. “Whose turn is it next?”

Before anyone could answer an alarm clock began to ring. James pressed the button to stop it, squinted at the check list, and said “That’s the warning to jettison the caravan.”

“And?”

“You never studied. It’s the big red and yellow stripy lever your feet are resting on. Pull out the pin, then push the lever clockwise.”

Jeremy leaned forward and tried to reach it, floated into the air, banged his head on one of the reinforcing beams for the fourth or fifth time, and swore loudly.

“I’ll get it,” said Richard. He squirmed to a better position, pulled the pin, and jerked on the lever with all his strength. It refused to move.

“Let me take a look,” said James, unclipping his seat belt and trying to turn round. Gromit woke with a start and scrambled out of the way.

James tilted the seat back until he could see the lever, and said “Okay, I know what the problem is. You need to pull it up towards you before you try to turn it clockwise.”

“I can’t reach it with you in the way,” said Richard.

“Neither can I,” said Jeremy.

“Okay,” said James. “I’ll try.” He pushed the seat back more, braced himself against the canopy, and tugged and twisted as hard as he could. There was a loud ‘snap’ as a guillotine blade cut through the hoses, while the coupling pin was pulled to release the cable. The Bug lurched forward; caught by surprise, James flew backwards, bounced off the seat, flew forward again, and his head bashed the windscreen. There was a noise like a snapping twig, and a small crack appeared in the windscreen, slowly spreading upwards and downwards.

“Oh dear!” said Wallace.

“Bugger!” said James. “Chaps… any of that Juicy Fruit left? Or some gaffer tape?”

Forgotten, the remains of the caravan slowly disappeared into the distance.

 **TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**XVIII – 25 miles up: T-1**

James peered past the strips of sticking plaster that now covered most of his side of the windscreen and tried to spot the ground through the glow of the hot gases that were streaming past the car. As far as he could tell there was nothing but cloud below. “I think we’re the right way up,” he said, “but god alone knows where we are.”

“Ask Sir Patrick,” said Richard, “they’re bound to be tracking us on radar.”

“Can’t get through, too much interference. Maybe when we’re lower.”

“What about the satnav?” asked Jeremy.

“You remember you wanted to cut costs?”

“And?”

“You crossed off the aviation satnav I wanted and bought one from Argos instead.”

“And it was a real bargain.”

“Except that aviation satnavs work at aviation speeds and altitudes, this thing might be fine for a Mini but it won’t be any good for us until we’re practically on the ground.”

“Oops.”

“We need to shed a load of speed or we’ll burn up as we get lower, but without knowing where we are… well, I’d hate to run out of fuel over the Atlantic or something.”

“Don’t worry, lad,” said Wallace, “it’s all taken care of. Gromit lad, deploy the homing system.”

Gromit rummaged under the dashboard, pulled out a small cage containing a disgruntled-looking pigeon, and hung it on the rear view mirror. The pigeon looked around wildly then peered ahead and to the right.

“Finest homing pigeon in all of Wigan, he’ll guide us straight there.”

“To Wigan?” said Jeremy.

“Of course Wigan,” said Wallace.

“We’re going to need one hell of a long runway,” said James. “Wigan doesn’t have an airport, does it?”

“There’s a flying club. And Manchester airport’s only twenty-five miles away.”

“Oh, good grief.”

“Problem, James?” asked Jeremy.

“There won’t be room for us to land.”

“Don’t worry,” Wallace repeated. “Everything’s under control. It’s all taken care of, just enjoy the ride.”

James was pretty sure he’d never seen a dog cross its fingers before. Gromit managed it now.

There was an ominous creak from the windscreen, and a shard of glass blew out. The plasters covering it bulged out into the opening then burst with a soft ‘pop’ as air began to whistle out through the hole. “Give me something to cover the hole,” shouted James. “Something smooth! Now!”

“Oh dear,” said Wallace. For a moment he seemed to freeze, then with an anguished expression reached into a pocket, produced a plastic-wrapped package and slapped it against the hole. The contents instantly moulded themselves to the windscreen, while pressure held the pack in place. The whistling stopped. Four pairs of eyes stared at it then looked at Wallace accusingly.

“You utter bastard!” said Jeremy. “We’ve been eating alien beans for fourteen sodding hours. Why didn’t you share that out?”

James stared at the pack. “Eight Extra-Mature Cheddar Cheese Slices. Eight! We could have had two each!” Gromit growled menacingly. “All right, one and three fifths.”

“I was holding it in reserve,” said Wallace. “Happen it’s a good thing I did.”

“That’s not going to hold forever,” said Richard, “we’ve got to get this thing down before it kills us.”

“Now the interesting thing about this,” said James, “is that as we get lower the pressure will tend to make the windscreen implode, not explode.”

“Have you got a better plan?” asked Jeremy. “Thought not. Let’s get this thing down.”

There was a rasp of static, and the radio said “…zzzst increase angle of descent by six degrees, repeat zero six degrees, and vector five degrees, zero five degrees, to starboard. I repeat, increase angle of descent… zzzzzzz…”

“Do you think they meant us?” asked Richard.

“Seems plausible,” said James, “the pigeon was looking that way.”

“Right you are then,” said Wallace, steering slightly to the right and pressing on the foot pedals. The wings groaned in protest, and the Bug began to shudder as it hit increased air resistance.

On the radio Sir Patrick’s voice said “…crossing the South Coast, altitude fifteen miles, distance two hundred miles. ETA ten minutes and counting…”

“We’re doing twelve hundred miles an hour in a three-wheeled car!” said Jeremy. “That’s got to be some sort of record.”

“Over two thousand, actually,” said James. “We’ve got to shed a lot of speed soon. I really hope this plan of yours is good.”

“Don’t worry, lad,” said Wallace. “The Stig loved it when I explained it to him. Um, her.”

“Wait a minute,” said Richard. “The Stig probably knew he… she… wouldn’t be coming back.”

“Oh dear… Never mind, I’m sure everything will be all right.”

The radio said “Altitude five miles, throttle back to twenty percent power, and reduce descent angle by three degrees, zero three degrees.”

“No course change,” Wallace said proudly. “Best pigeon in Wigan!”

Suddenly the pack of cheese slices blew in, followed by a blast of frigid air through the hole in the windscreen.

“Told you so,” shouted James. “We must be well below the speed of sound, or that would have torn the Bug apart.”

Gromit pressed the packet back against the hole, bracing himself with his back legs against Richard’s chest. It went comparatively quiet again.

“At least that’s cleared the air a bit,” said Jeremy.

“After fifteen hours of eating beans it needed it,” added Richard.

“Steer left two degrees, repeat zero two, increase descent angle by three degrees, repeat zero three, and cut power to ten percent.”

“Much more of that and we’ll be falling out of the sky,” said Richard.

“I can see lights flashing ahead,” said James; “looks like a plane, a big one.”

“Oh for god’s sake,” said Jeremy, “didn’t they even clear the bloody route for us.”

“There’s a sign!” said James, “it says ‘Follow me’.”

“There’s something behind it,” said Richard, peering over his shoulder. “Looks like something being towed on a cable.”

The object got closer; a man, riding something that looked like a jet ski with stubby wings, being towed at the end of the cable.

“No,” said Jeremy.

“Can’t be,” said James.

“It bloody is,” said Richard.

Together they said “Black Stig!”

“I told you it was a good plan,” Wallace said smugly.

“Didn’t we try to kill him a couple of times?” mused Richard.

“He was never one to hold a grudge,” said Jeremy.

“How would you know?” asked James.

When Black Stig was about thirty feet ahead he produced a huge gun and fired it at the Bug. A grapnel hook flew out, narrowly missing them. Black Stig did something to the gun and the cable started to retract.

“We’re getting bloody low on fuel,” said James.

“Have no fear,” said Richard, “Black Stig is here.”

“So this is it,” said Jeremy, “we’re all going to die.”

Suddenly Black Stig fired again, and the hook thudded into the front of the Bug, penetrating the fibre glass hatch and narrowly missing James’ feet, and began to wind back towards the aircraft ahead.

“That’s a Hercules,” said James, as they got closer. “I don’t see how we’re going to get aboard; our wings are way too wide to fit through the loading ramp.”

As Black Stig’s vehicle approached the Hercules, the freighter hit some turbulence and dropped rapidly; the towing cable snapped Black Stig upwards against the fuselage of the Hercules, and he fell from his flying jet-ski and disappeared into the night.

“That’s torn it,” said James.

“We’re only a couple of miles up,” said Jeremy. “He’ll be fine once he’s had a couple of aspirin.”

The Hercules levelled off, and the cable began to drag them in again. Inside someone wearing flying gear was signalling something with a “cut my throat” gesture.

“I think he means cut power,” said James.

“Right-ho,” said Wallace, hitting switches. Behind them the roar of the rockets died down. A few seconds later the cable started to wind them in again. “Retract the wings, Gromit lad.”

Gromit began to turn one of the handles protruding from the dashboard, and the wings slowly began to fold back under the Bug.

“That’s amazing,” said Richard.

“How else were you supposed to drive it home?” asked Wallace, as the Bug rolled to a halt aboard the Hercules, and the loading ramp slowly closed.

**XIX – Somewhere near Wigan, Midnight**

Watched only by some incurious sheep, two circles of searing bright green light scanned across a field and a small and newly-formed crater, before settling on a shattered black-clad body. Broken bones began to knit back together, torn flesh healed, and split leather flowed back to a seamless whole. Within minutes Black Stig was on his feet again, and walking briskly in the direction of Dunsfold Aerodrome, 189 miles away.

**XX – Paris, France, T-0, 3.30 AM**

It was a dark rainy night in Paris, which was good news for everyone who might have otherwise been out and about when the remains of the caravan plummeted from the sky and shattered on one of the main supports of the Eiffel Tower. The fuel bladder and oxygen tank burst; the small amount of fuel that remained ignited instantly to create a raging inferno. Within seconds the entire tower was engulfed, soon the metal itself was burning. With a groan the entire structure collapsed into the Seine, crushing several barges. As it fell the flaming wreckage of a piano rolled out of the Le Jules Verne restaurant and landed on a vintage British car which was parked on the embankment.

**Epilogue - Dunsfold Aerodrome, Surrey, T+5**

“Okay,” said Jeremy, smirking at the camera. “I think that we can say that we handled that challenge pretty well.”

“It’s a shame we had to lose White Stig,” said Richard, “but we did save Milton Keynes, and Black Stig is already up to speed in his place.” As he spoke the Top Gear banners depicting White Stig fluttered down, and Black Stig banners were raised in their place.

“Admittedly White Stig went home, but we’ve flown the first car into space, made the first landing on an inhabited world, and made first contact with at least two types of alien.”

“And destroyed the Eiffel Tower, five barges, a piano and a Morris Marina,” said James.

“There may have been some minor property damage,” said Jeremy, stressing the word ‘minor,’ “but I think we can all agree it’s been a triumph for British engineering and ingenuity.”

“The French don’t think so,” said Richard. “Don’t expect us to be reviewing any French cars any time soon… unless you’re watching this as a repeat on Dave, of course, in which case we’ll probably be doing it for another four or five years.”

“And on that bombshell,” said Jeremy; “Goodnight!”

**End.**

Adding a very minor crossover with Captain Scarlet. Many thanks to everyone who reviewed and commented, especially those who pointed out errors. One day I may actually do something about some of them. Special applause to Don Sample, who spotted that the Eiffel Tower really does have a piano bar.

And here's a fun Clangers video that gives a different reason to worry about them...  
Attack of the Clangers by Nathan Yeoman  
http://youtu.be/VF4c9BrJnYc


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